


Burning Blue

by Pel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pel/pseuds/Pel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Dean's mind wanders to unexpected places. And his hands, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a revision of a story I wrote ages ago that I've always wanted to come back to. It's set in season 4 or 5, a while after Dean returns from Hell. Thanks for reading!

Sometimes, he can almost remember it. The moment. 

He remembers everything else. He remembers the bitter smell. The heat. Pain, and dull red light, and endless noise. He remembers the exact feel of the knife, the shape and weight of it when he slipped it into his hand for the first time. He remembers too damn much. 

But that last thing, he still can’t quite reach it in his mind, no matter how hard he tries. The last moment, when the red sky must have broken open, and suddenly he was lifted up, delivered. The moment when the fire of Heaven scorched a path through the fire of Hell.

A burning path of light, straight from Castiel, to him. 

He’s never told anyone, but he always knows when Castiel is going to show up in a room, the instant before it actually happens. A split second before the angel appears and scares the shit out of everyone. He knows because he sees it, inside his head, behind his eyes, just before... a bright, dazzling burst of blue. 

It’s four a.m., and Dean Winchester has a huge fucking hard on. 

He cursed under his breath, shifting a little under the blankets. A few feet away, his brother was a vague lump in the next bed. They had come in late from a bitch of a job; slogging in the dark through a swamp, of all places, after a nasty little water kappa that had been drowning the neighborhood dogs. The things were known to work their way up to small children, but it had still been annoying to be out there busting their asses all night just to rescue fucking Bootsie the fucking labradoodle. When they had finally gotten back to the motel both of them had only taken the time to chug back a beer, ball up their ruined clothes, and do a cursory wipe-off of mud and blood-spattered skin before collapsing into their identical, narrow beds. 

That had been hours ago. It was very late now, quiet in that too-loud way that only cheap interstate motels can have. Dean wanted nothing more than to roll over, bury his head into the pillow, and pass out for an hour or two, at least. But there was no way that was going to happen; not when his skin was practically on fire, and he could feel the distinct sensation of his rapid pulse throbbing through the big, thick vein in the side of his cock. 

For the last fifteen minutes, he had been trying to ignore the hard on. He was starting to suspect that it wasn’t going to work. 

To be honest, he hadn’t really been sleeping, anyway. More like drifting; staring up at the patterns made by passing headlights moving across the stained motel ceiling, listening to the sound of Sammy’s breathing. A lifetime of hunting fucked with a man’s sleeping patterns, and by now it almost seemed unnatural to be in a bed after dark. So he often found himself lying there, sleeping and not-sleeping, thinking and not-thinking.  
And that’s when it usually happened. Out of nowhere, he would find himself getting... hot. Hungry. Hard. 

It always started with the mark. 

Every time, it would start with that god damned mark. Not erections in general, necessarily— but _this_ hard on, this particular woody that tended to ambush him when he was least expecting it, in the still, hazy hours before dawn, when sleep wouldn’t come. 

Most of the time, the mark didn’t bother him. The wound itself had healed a long time ago, the blisters fading and the skin knitting over until it had the smooth, dull-pink finish of an old scar. It didn’t even itch anymore, though there was still something... the feeling of pressure, maybe; like a hand was there, barely resting against his arm. A touch that wouldn’t go away. 

Usually he just pretended it wasn’t there. Hell, it’s not like he didn’t have enough other things to keep him distracted. It kind of faded into the background, until he had almost gotten used to the nagging sensation of having it there.

But sometimes, he would feel something else. 

It would start with a tingling sensation, like he had been out in the sun too long. The skin of his shoulder would go warm to the touch. Then the tingle would turn into a burning, and the burn into a fire. The heat spread slowly, low and insistently pleasurable under his skin, stealing out from the print of Castiel’s hand and moving across his bare chest, down over his ribs and belly. Heading south, like it did every damn time. Sinking down inside. Before he knew it, his whole body was flushed and warm, and his cock was swelling up so hard and fast it was almost painful. 

If it happened on a bad night—one of those nights when he just _knew_ the dreams were waiting for him—then the strange, nagging heat might make him think of other things burning. Might make him think of searing flesh, and screams. When that happened, there would be nothing for it but to roll over and rummage down under the side of the bed, passing over the concealed sawed-off with only a brief, unacknowledged pause, before moving on to the fifth of rotgut he kept stashed there. 

But most of the time, when it happened, he wasn’t really thinking about Hell. 

He was thinking about blue. 

He shifted again in the bed, hissing a little when his cock pressed against the inside of his boxers, the damp fabric clinging to his over-sensitized skin. His balls were like hard little stones. He tried not to think about how good it would be to touch himself, how badly he wanted to, but it was a losing battle.

That fucking blue. Deep; more like the color of a stone than of the sky. It seemed to hang over him, more ominous than a color had any right to be. More enticing than was natural for something that scared him so damn badly.

He snuck a sideways glance at his brother. Sammy looked like he was asleep, probably. But the kid was a good faker. 

Dean debated for about ten more seconds, before finally groaning and burrowing his hand down under the blankets. Even if Sam wasn’t really asleep, that was just too damn bad. He would deal. It was just one of those things; two dudes, living in such close quarters for so long... a man had needs. You learned to tune it out, pretend you didn’t hear. There was a whole etiquette around this shit. Sammy would understand.

Now, if only it would make some kind of fucking sense to Dean, everything would be peachy. 

He slid his fingers in under the waistband of his boxers, groaning again when he finally pressed his palm against the hot, sweaty skin of his cock. He rubbed absently at his balls for a minute, easing the ache, before rolling a little to one side, trying to make it sound ‘casual’. He shifted until he had the covers just right, tented up a bit over his legs, masking the tell-tale motions of his hands as he slowly pushed the head of his cock into his fist.

He shuddered, his breath catching in his chest. He was so turned on already, it was almost too much, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. He ran a few slow, tight strokes experimentally up and down his length, his stomach clenching and jumping. It was so damn good. Too good; good enough to make sweat bead on his lip and his heart hammer in his chest.

He didn’t really know when this shit had started happening. Stuff he just couldn’t talk about, not even with Sam. Shit that he didn’t know how to deal with. And he was starting to realize it wasn’t just his imagination, or his over-active hormones getting a mind of their own. Sometimes, when Cas was out with them on a job, he would catch himself noticing a motion out of the corner of his eye; an unconsciously graceful gesture, or the turn of a head. The sight of it would send a totally inappropriate flush running through him, a warm wash of sensation through his body, distracting him at the most inconvenient moments. Shit like that could get a man killed, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. Somewhere along the way, things had gotten completely out of hand.

He started to stroke his cock steady and slow, squeezing his eyes shut, twisting his fist lightly, teasing himself. He knew he should just get it over with; jack it quick and hard and finish it before his mind had a chance to catch up. To sneak in and betray him. 

But it was too warm under the blankets, and the mark on his shoulder throbbed, distracting him. His free hand started to roam over his body under the sheet, fingertips teasing along his belly, brushing over his nipples. His other thumb rubbed in rough, rhythmic circles over the head of his cock, making his blood rush in his ears. Without thinking about it, he groped his arm across his chest, reaching for that place, the place where Castiel had touched him, fitting his hand into the shape of it, skin prickling hot under his palm. He groaned and rubbed the very tips of his strong fingers against his cock, pressed hard right under the swollen ridge of his crown, seeing stars behind his eyelids as his thoughts started to unravel, and come loose.

It wasn’t the vessel. It couldn’t be the fucking vessel. He told himself that, repeated it like a mantra a hundred times a day. It wasn’t that guy’s body, that flat-chested, packing-in-the-pants, _dude’s_ body that was making him feel like this. Making him notice the low curve of a shoulder, the strong angle of a masculine jaw; making him think about skin and rough hands and yeah, for fuck’s sake, making him think about _cocks_. Making him wonder at sudden, inappropriate moments just what Cas was really rocking under that trench coat. 

It wasn’t the vessel. It was that thing inside, damn it! That thing that he could feel, like.... like something hot, pushing out from the inside. That thing that pulsated, and radiated, and glowed. 

He had realized that no one else could really feel Castiel, not Bobby or Sam, not the way that he could. But then, neither of them had the mark. 

Dean could sure as hell feel it. Whenever the angel was close, Castiel’s heat drew him in, caught him in a fucking trap until it was the only thing he could see. And eyes... eyes that were too blue to be fucking real, every time he turned around. He had this idea that an angel should feel different somehow, more like fresh air, or sky— some fucking thing like that. But he didn’t. To Dean, Castiel felt like... well, like the fire of Heaven.

The angel burned, bright and white-hot blue. 

And just maybe-- it was something more. Because when Dean was like this, rubbing his slick cock in his hand, nearly out of his mind with the heat, he could almost let himself admit that it was something else he was thinking about, too. It was teaching an idiot how to have a good time, and making fun of him when he didn’t get it. It was shared battles and shared pain and a laugh that seemed like a gift when it happened for the first time.

Damn it, he was so fucking hot. Sweat tickled over his skin, and the blankets were hanging on him, damp and heavy and irritating. He shot another glance at Sammy in the next bed. The kid was flopped out on his back, his mouth hanging open, drooling a little against his pillow. He had to be asleep. Probably. 

Fuck it. Dean suddenly flung the covers off, grabbing his boxers and dragging them down past his knees, kicking them impatiently in the general direction of the floor. The air hit his exposed, overheated skin, and he groaned out loud at how good it felt to be naked. 

He planted his heels into the mattress and spread his knees wide apart, giving himself better leverage as he rubbed himself in long, desperate strokes. Sammy didn’t even twitch, so Dean just went for it, working his foreskin roughly up against the head of his cock, letting his hips lead him as he started to thrust freely up into the empty air, into the tight ring of his hand. His whole body was burning. He felt like he would catch fire.

He threw his forearm across his face, shoving his own skin between his teeth, trying to keep himself quiet, trying to keep it all tamped down tight. He gnawed at the bones of his wrist like a fucking flesh eater, but a high moan was whining out of his mouth anyway. And fuck if he wasn’t thinking about it. Imagining it, what it would _feel_ like. Eyes bright in the dark above him. Rough lips and big hands. A heavy, angular body... pressing down against him, on top of him, spreading open and sliding tight around him, hotter than any fire of Heaven or Hell. 

In the end, he couldn’t blot it out, couldn’t bury it or gag it back. The pleasure that he couldn’t fight and the thoughts that he couldn’t will away, they were all rising up, like something hot, pushing out from the inside. 

“.. _Cas_.....”

It came out of his mouth low and hungry and so fucking needy, everything he wanted just spilling out with the name. It came out almost like begging. 

Almost like a prayer.

..... And then, the beating passage of wings. The bright flash of blue behind his closed eyelids, the burst of color that he always saw in his mind, just before. 

Suddenly he knew what had happened. Knew his mistake. In a flash of panic Dean gripped tight at his dick, but it was too late to stop, because he was coming. His whole body jerked and shuddered against the sheets, snapping up tight with the force of the pleasure that suddenly swamped through him, jizz shooting out between his fingers before he could hold it back. 

The room was very still. Dean panted against the arm thrown across his face, trembling a little from the force of his orgasm. He decided it was a good plan not to open his eyes. Ever. But it didn’t really matter; he could _feel_ him standing there, that blue moving over his skin. And he already knew what he would find if he looked, anyway. 

Messy hair and that stupid outfit that it never occurred to the idiot to change. Head cocked inquisitively to one side. Fierce focus and scary, clueless intelligence and an uncomprehending, furrowed brow. Uncomfortably direct questions, most certainly. 

And blue. Eyes that Dean knew—knew!—were burning, right at that very moment, as they stared down at his limp, wet cock, his flushed skin; at his dirty, naked, jizz-spattered body... looking at him, at Dean Winchester, and burning bright with the light of Heaven. 

And maybe, with something else.

 

***


End file.
